


Mad Hatter

by levitatethis



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far is <em>too</em> far? When is enough enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Hatter

_“All the times that I’ve cried  
All this wasted   
It’s all inside   
And I feel all this pain   
Stuffed it down   
It’s back again   
And I lie here in bed   
All alone   
I can’t mend   
But I feel tomorrow will be okay   
But I’m on the outside   
And I’m looking in   
I can see through you   
See your true colours   
‘Cause inside you’re ugly   
Ugly like me   
I can see through you   
See to the real you”_   
**-Staind,** _ **Outside**_

  
Toby fingers the top corner of the page. The book isn’t all that interesting, but it keeps his mind occupied—numbed to an extent—from the bitter alternative.

Em City is busy with whatever passes for life on days like these. Card games, laundry, the ever-pumping gossip mill around tables, along the upper level railings, in the doorways of the pods, are the rather innocent fare. One just needs to be extra aware of a hidden shank, a far too interested set of staring eyes and darkened corners, not to mention the tried and true use of misdirection to expose the hacks blind spots.

Toby asks one thing: to make it through one day without feeling a fucking thing. It’s the flipside of being crushed under too much. He doesn’t want to lose what’s left of his heart, but it’s been hurt so badly, trampled and crudely dissected, he needs a break, a brief reprieve to catch his breath. Em City might be bustling a bit more with McManus back in the game (proudly thumping his chest at his questionable creation—and Toby thinks the man should seriously consider setting his goals higher) but Said is MIA with Adebisi’s death on his hands and Toby is treading dangerously close to full out grief, feeling shitty for rebuking his friend when he tried to help, but not shitty enough that he actually stopped when it mattered.

While Busmalis and Rebadow discuss the finer points of Miss Sally on the other side of the table from him, the chair to his right is pulled back with a loud clatter and a body settles down, pulling close into his space. Toby raises a questioning eyebrow at O’Reily who, hunched forward with his arms folded across the tabletop, peers intently at him.

It’s a surprise visit to say the least. Toby and O’Reily haven’t conversed one-on-one for a while now, not since Andrew Schillinger appeared as an apparition to be sacrificed and sure as hell not since O’Reily and Chris became thick as thieves while Toby was cast out into oblivion. For a moment a small part of Toby—the part that still hasn’t learned that hope is useless—thinks he’s here to pass on some message from Chris. Even a sarcastic jab from Chris would do the job, the subtext reminding Toby he’s still in the other man’s thoughts. A split second later, however, he remembers O’Reily looks out for numero uno first.

With expectations quickly in check, Toby utters a dispassionate, “What?”

“You’re working with Sister Pete this afternoon, right?”

“Yeah,” Toby replies with the vaguest hint of curiosity.

“You—uh—swing by the infirmary…”

 _Of course. Gloria. Jesus Christ, are we all fools in love?_ Toby thinks. Which is not what he says. Closing the book (using his finger to save the page) he focuses his attention on O’Reily. “I walk _by_ the infirmary,” he clarifies, remembering the time he made an effort to go in and see a certain someone, way back when possibility didn’t seem a fruitless consequence of survival.

O’Reily regards him for a few seconds as he if trying to figure out how best to proceed. “But you could peek in? See how Gloria is?”

Toby instinctively wants to shrug off O’Reily and tell him to get his new fuck buddy to do the job, but he catches a glimmer of yearning in O’Reily’s eyes that he recognizes a bit too fondly. Gloria’s been away for a couple of weeks (rumor has it bad news had her racing out in the middle of a shift and she hasn’t been back until now) and O’Reily is obviously anxious as to what happened and what it means. Toby finds he can’t begrudge the man his feelings. He recalls the ache of Murphy’s rebuff when he inquired about Chris’ health after he was shot.

Any sympathetic words are halted and reconfigured as Toby spots Chris walking by the table with a ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ strut going strong and his eyes dark beneath a furrowed brow at the sight of Toby talking with O’Reily ( _guess Ryan didn’t get permission for this little interlude—interesting_ ) before taking a seat by the televisions.

“I could,” Toby posits thoughtfully, returning O’Reily’s gaze. “What do I get out of it?”

A flicker of surprise crosses O’Reily’s face which amuses Toby. It means he can still entertain the unexpected, not just wallow or self-destruct for the amusement of others.

After a momentary pause, O’Reily asks, “What do you want?”

 _Well, if that isn’t_ the _million dollar question_.

He wants his kids—Holly and Harry (Allah watch over Gary’s soul)—to be safe and live long and happy lives. He wants them to know love, unconditional and true, and to never doubt that the love he feels for them has never faltered and never will. Not once.

He wants to erase those deep lines of excessive worry from his parent’s faces. Frown lines should give way to laugh lines; gray hairs should be a testament to the passage of time not stress. He misses the feeling of knowing his parents are proud of him, that their high expectations have not only been met but surpassed. Being part of a family seems so distant now, the need for it gnawing deeper each day, manifesting strongest at lights out and when he has nothing to do but give his mind free time to wander.

He wants to go back in time and stop himself from drinking—or at least be smart enough to take a cab home on that fateful day, never crashing into Kathy Rockwell and ripping to shred two families in the process. He thinks he could have saved Gen, loved her more, enough to set her free and give her a chance at a real life.

He wants to feel ten consecutive seconds of absolute happiness, the thrill of contentment, the calm of bliss.

He wants Vern Schillinger to be castrated and have his dick shoved down his throat ( _open up, pussy ass bitch_ ).

He wants the cafeteria to serve at least one meal that tastes of home in all its glory, the kind of meal which warms over his body from the outside in and conjures up memories of a childhood in which the future seems to stretch out forever.

He wants to stand on his own and feel the certainty of resolve.

He wants to curl up into a strong embrace, feel firm arms wrap around his body (protectively) while he softly traces his fingers across an expanse of heated skin (listening for that contented sigh) and tucks his face into the curve of an exposed neck.

He misses late night conversations (before a thorough fucking…and after), filled with quietly spoken confessions and unveiled intellect most would never think possible in this place where time goes to die. He misses the challenging sentiments which made him reevaluate a position and gentle words of endearment that made his skin flush and turned butterflies in his stomach—a grown man reduced to a full body quiver.

He wants to cut Chris out of his life and sever him from his soul, once and for all.

He wants Said back because he misses his friend and Said is one of those few sane minds he feels an affinity to.

He dreams about walking out of Oz a free man, wiping the past clean and setting his eyes on a tenable future—working for prisoners rights and prison reforms.

He remembers…

 _“What do you want?”_

“That news bitch was asking an awful lot of questions. What did you tell her about me?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Then Chris’ hand was on his arm, rubbing it, laying the manipulation on thick. Toby hated him for it, for trying to dictate screwed up rules and regulations, yet craved more, wishing Chris would never stop touching him—because, God, me must miss it, feeling the charge of electricity still sparking between them. Toby ricocheted between pushing Chris up against the wall, kissing him until they were both out of breath, and breaking his nose, spraying them both crimson red.

 _“You tell her anything about us, you tell her anything about anything—,”_

“And what, huh? What are you gonna do?”

Us. Toby almost missed it then. He was so pissed off, the reference to them as a… _them_ , a singular unit…didn’t penetrate his brain until he replayed the conversation for the hundredth time that night. On the one hand it was a clarification of rules for a battle increasingly taking its toll. On the other hand it suggested a certain vulnerability which implied that this game did not negate the conflicting feelings running rampant in the other man.

Toby wants Chris to love him again, out in the open without reservation. He wants to smile at Chris in front of everyone and have it mean something genuine once more.

He wants to force Chris’ hand. He wants Chris to act of his own volition, and not just kill out of love but step out of the shadows and back into the goddamn light.

He wants to feel love again. He wants to rip it to shreds and never feel the pain of it for one more day.

Quirking a half smile at O’Reily, Toby says, “Seven little Indian boys chopping up sticks; one chopped himself in halves and then there were six.”

To his credit, O’Reily doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I hate it when that happens.”

Toby grins his reply and opens his book.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
He sees the self-destruct button and _knows_ he shouldn’t touch it. Still, he hovers his hand dangerously close. The fact that the rush of inevitable pain would follow the brief burst of accomplishment doesn’t deter him. It’s problematic—willingly considering a minute of feeling _something_ good even with the very real tradeoff of endless hurt nipping at its heels.

He’s already disassembled and shattered into a million pieces.

 _“So, how does that sex make you feel? You feel better about yourself?”_

“No, worse.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because at least I’m feeling something. I prefer to be happy, but self-hate will do in a pinch.”

“Don’t hate yourself.”

“Why not? My son is dead ‘cause of me. My daughter’s a mess ‘cause of me. And Keller—Keller doesn’t love me. But I tried this new detergent. It really seems to get the whites clean.”

Yes, the fates conspired against him. He can barely face it when it suits him or when it’s right to point out the tangled web they all weave together. But as much as misfortune has been of his own doing, withheld forgiveness is the scarlet letter. Even Said couldn’t put him back together again. He tried. And though Toby may not have appreciated it at the time, in retrospect (especially with Said festering in isolation) it means something; it gives him pause to know he has someone in his corner not looking to work an angle. It’s not lost on him that Said never gave up, kept trying to point out the father he could still be, _should_ be.

Yet every time he thinks maybe he can settle for the calm rather than the storm…

Chris is oppressive. Has been since he first set up home in Toby’s life and the gusto Toby feels for that presence can change ten times a day. He still manages to breath down Toby’s neck, predator-like, (ex) lover infested. He tosses Toby aside on a whim, yet at the same time holds Toby (too) close. _‘You can’t always get what you want,’_ echoes silently between them, a motto of insanity.

Lucky for Chris, Toby is addicted to extremes and the world turned on its head. How else to explain loving Chris and his kids in the same breath?

Chris’ words say, _‘Fuck what you want. I couldn’t give two shits.’_

Chris’ actions say, _‘You’re mine. Anyone who touches you is fucking dead. Test me. I dare you.’_

Does it keep him beholden to Chris? Or is it Chris’ way of keeping him isolated? Is it an unspoken act of protection for everyone to see and heed? Or is it a sentence handed down as punishment? Whatever it is, they’ve been in a stalemate for days. No fucking means no dead bodies—for now. Chris needles him for fun and the very thought of Angus under the influence of Chris’ rather focused attention makes Toby want to rip his eyes out. But those verbal assaults are what pass for contact nowadays. They’re few and far between. As the days pile up he feels more and more like the punishment he’s living far exceeds the crime.

Toby’s slipping under the waves of indifference, so much so he doesn’t think too much of the fact that his new podmate, Ronnie Barlog, strikes an uncanny resemblance to Chris. Sure, he sees it, but it hardly penetrates his conscience—not until he realizes Ronnie and Chris know each other from life on the outside.

He shouldn’t touch the self-destruct button.

But he can’t help the spark of …he knows not what, just lurking on the horizon.

The stakes are getting higher and in the case of an impasse (right now being Toby’s inability to find solid ground with Chris all up in his business from afar, brandishing him a trap and a leper) something’s got to give. Chris is using Toby’s emotional state to inflict the most damage. The deeper the wound, right?

Well two can play at this game.

Time to light the powder keg. Time to flip Chris’ ultimatum upside down. He can picture the tension in Chris’ jaw, the pissed off fire in his eyes turning them coal black. It might be a temporary win, but it will do.

“He’s cute. Does he like to fool around?”

There it is. The look. Chris’ mask drops and Toby sees the man he once thought he knew—the one who whispered, “I love you,” and meant it—below.

 _I can hurt you too._

Boom.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
 _“You’re a miserable little cunt, you know that?”_

Takes one to know one. Contrary to previously held beliefs, assholes come in pairs.

Toby wishes he could plead the fifth, but the truth is difficult to ignore. He went after Ronnie as a means to an end. Toby, after all, was a good pupil, one who learned from the best. Chris would have been impressed if he weren’t so livid, driven to go for Toby’s jugular.

The casualty list is growing and Toby wonders how many is too many names before one’s conscience splits. He sees the invisible line which extends from himself to Chris and back again. It’s the kind of thing writers have captured in timeless verse, but there are consequences. Chris is the fractured reflection of Toby. They are one and the same now, opposites from the same womb. One clawed his way out of the dirt. The other fell from the top branch of the family tree. Side-by-side their steps are similar enough to raise a curious eyebrow. They go against expectation or explanation.

It doesn’t escape his notice, the slightly shell shocked look in Chris’ eyes when no one is watching.

Toby fucked Ronnie to fuck Chris. Chris returned the favour. They used a middleman—for better and for worse, in love and hate—then cut him loose with little hesitation.

Closing his eyes, he is transported to _that_ night. Ronnie’s face flickers with Chris before him. Some differences are tiny (the length of shaved hair, the colour blue of the eyes, the build) while others are more profound (the rhythm of his voice, the hitch of his breath before he comes, that he says groans, “Beecher,” rather than the more informal yet more familiar, “Toby,” the tentative touch of his fingers through Toby’s hair instead of resting on his head like they are an extension of each other, his taste…smell…). It reminds him of Chris, but falls short.

When Toby blinks or closes his eyes, he can pretend, replacing one man with the other, trading the placebo for the full throttle hit. For one night he can be with Chris again while simultaneously relishing the body blow he knows this act of war will deliver to Chris. Every groan Toby elicits will be a deep scratch down Chris’ back. Each moan from Ronnie’s lips will be a deafening scream in Chris’ ear. Toby’s lips wrapped around Ronnie’s hard, leaking, straining cock—throat constricting around it—will be a shank to Chris’ body, meant to draw blood quickly.

Toby’s mindful enough to not let Ronnie fuck him in return. Toby makes sure to keep control—to show Chris who is in charge and to (secretly) ensure only one man truly, willingly, knows his body. It’s easier to give pleasure in the name of battle than receive it in the most open and easily bruised state. Toby doesn’t think what it all means to Ronnie in the long run. Consequences only extend as far as himself and Chris are concerned and even then he doesn’t see beyond fighting as a means to (hopefully) making up.

Toby mulls over motives like martinis. Ronnie’s death is the most visceral and the most disturbing part? As upsetting as it is to share responsibility in Ronnie’s murder, Toby can’t deny the swelling of his heart at the fact Chris _believed_ his warning, heard it and took it to heart. Chris may have killed out of self-preservation but it’s because he trusts—loves—more than he hates.

There’s something definitive about Ronnie’s death. In a quiet moment stolen for himself, Toby considers the myriad meanings behind it, but he cannot bring himself to say the words out loud, not yet. They’ve been pushing against each other so hard for so long now it’s unconscionable for Toby to pretend he doesn’t recognize the jigsaw man looking back at him in the mirror. That ship sailed a long time ago.

He’s at the tipping point.

He wants Chris to come to him, throw the past by the wayside and hold him close; making promises neither are sure they can keep but want to believe anyway because hope, as detrimental as it can be in a place like this, makes the seconds, minutes and hours worth living. He wants to risk rejection and find Chris, run his hands up Chris’ arms and shoulders, around his neck (gently massaging the skin), and stare into penetrating eyes, all to make him see that he takes it back—the desperate accusations, the inkling of doubt—because loving Chris has not been in question for a long time and trusting him is one of the few things Toby can count on.

The last time Toby felt this alone he had vengeance on the brain. Now he craves absolution.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Toby searches for answers that aren’t there.

In the midst of a personal grudge which began an epic battle (by Oz standards), Toby could rely on the absolute (yet confusing) guarantee that Chris was watching (over) him in some capacity. In separate pods, the span of the quad between them, they stared each other down every night. Sometimes for minutes, other times for hours, until someone finally blinked and turned away, only to pick u where they left off the following night.

Since Ronnie…

It’s been three nights (of nothing) and counting. Toby wouldn’t be surprised if he’s worn out the floor at the front of the pod where he’s planted his feet in the same place as he gazes up searchingly. Maybe it is too late to say he’s sorry. With a sigh which sounds to loud in the otherwise empty pod, Toby closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the plexiglass, pressing the tips of his fingers to the cold surface down by his hips.

It’s impossible to know comfort in this place. It’s _dangerous_ to think these walls capable of housing anything genuine beyond revenge. Life in here trades on, ‘blood in, blood out.’ Without that you’re a rogue other with a target on your back just trying not to drown.

…but he did feel it; that slant of light through the darkness skipping across his skin. He _did_ know the honesty of heartfelt confessions once buried so deep their existence was in question. He _was_ loved by Chris, and in turn he loves the man who has been a tornado across pre-conceived expectations, causing havoc at every turn. The barrage of messy emotions may only reside in his corner now, but there’s no denying them. Chris might be able to flip a switch and walk away, but Toby accepts his penance.

 _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou are with me._

Opening his eyes he raises his head, casting one last glance up before heading to bed. Nothing. Yet as he starts to turn away, disappointment stirring inside, a flash of movement at the corner of his eye stops him still.

Chris is at the front of his pod, clad in only boxers, his arms raised above his head resting against the plexiglass, looking down. And he’s not some figment of Toby’s delusional imagination. If he were, Chris would look the way Toby normally sees him—powerful and controlled. This Chris looks worn out, a bit unsure, _broken_. Half shadow, half light, he makes Toby suck a sharp intake of breath, the cool air dancing on the tip of his tongue then melting away.

Despite the distance, Chris’ eyes remain as piercing as ever. A flush of heat races across Toby’s body pooling in his groin and his heart beats out an all too familiar refrain. Slowly, his chest rises and falls over deep, steady breaths that don’t tell the full story about how much his man sends his mind spinning, blowing his world open and apart. Toby raises his hands, palms pressed forward, and lays his forehead against the plexiglass.

 _Remember._

He watches Chris do the same.

 _I loved you the most_ …thinks it, is sure he hears it.

They are an ugly truth of trials and tribulations (revelations), spilled blood and split skin (lifted souls), the darkness exemplified (striped in cracked light). Few get it. Fewer yet understand. Toby muffles the smile barely twitching the corners of his lips. Tomorrow he’ll ask McManus to move Chris back into his pod. Tomorrow Chris will agree to it. Then they can look forward rather than be stuck in the stagnant state which has almost killed the remnants of anything worth smiling over.

He tries not to let his overactive imagination get ahead of him, picturing a grin meant for him (not aimed as a weapon), seeing pupils blown open sucking him in; moaning against hot lips coaxing his and tasting the tease of Chris’ tongue and then the invited invasion of all his senses. Chris’ scent is all he can smell; unlocking memories once packed away that now fill up the empty space. The thought of being held tight to Chris’ chest again while words of affection are murmured in his ear is too much and precisely enough. It’s all so close and if he can just make it through tonight…

Tomorrow is a chance to start over. Angus is bringing Holly to visit, the interaction sessions with Schillinger are going as well as can be, in only a few hours Chris will be back in their pod. For the first time in a long while it all seems to be falling back into place and Toby plans on holding on with all his might because maybe, he tells himself, everything is going to be all right. As bad as things have been, there’s nowhere left to go but up.

The world turns inside out and back again and Toby’s eyes are filled with hope.  
  

  



End file.
